Faithful

by Janet Fox

  Both the fawn and I watched this happen, frozen, panting. The fawn bleated once, then turned and leapt into the woods.

  I turned and vomited into the leaves.

  My fault. All my fault.

  I vomited again, trying not to look at what remained of the doe. I heard the fawn bleating from somewhere in the woods. Both of us were lost, alone and bewildered.

  Chapter TWENTY

  July 5, 1904

  So I lost her. So I saw her afterwards, in my sleep at school—a silent presence near my bed —looking at me with the same intent face—holding up her baby in her arms.

  —David Copperfield, Charles Dickens, 1850

  “MARGARET?”

  My heart was cracked open as I entered the hall, the horror of the doe and the memory of Mama looming fresh in my mind. Papa was standing by the dining table.

  “Come in here, please.” His voice was tense and tight, his eyes hard.

  The papers. I’d left them scattered all over my room. “Have you been . . .” He stopped and peered at me, concern crossing his face. “What happened? You look terrible.”

  He seemed to care. I couldn’t remember when Papa had last seemed to care about me. But the impact of his concern faded against my fevered misery and guilt. I’d killed the doe as surely as if I’d shot it. I waved my hand. “I’m feeling ill. May I be excused?” I swayed.

  His face softened. “Of course. We’ll talk later.” I climbed the stairs with lead feet and I could hear him shuffling the papers, no doubt looking for something that was in fact on my bedroom floor.

  I locked my door and collapsed onto the floor, dragging the papers toward me. I tidied them as best I could; I lifted my mattress and slid the stack underneath. I’d have to sneak them back downstairs later.

  I rinsed my face in the washbowl and lay across my bed, trying to keep the nausea from rising up again, trying to gather my thoughts. They spun in dizzying circles like a game’s teetotum, pointing this way and then that.

  My mind turned from the doe’s eyes to Mama’s eyes, and at last to my memory of her on the last day I saw her, after she’d left my bedroom. After my last words to her: “I don’t care if I never see you again.” It was my fault, as surely as if I’d pushed the doe into the hot spring. It was my fault, as surely as if I’d pushed Mama off the Cliff Walk and into the raging sea.

  I had wanted to stop her from leaving, but I didn’t. She left my room that last day and I lay in my bed in misery, hoping she’d come back. Finally, I threw off the pillow and crept as close as I dared to my tower window. Beyond the sea grass and rocks, the waves frothed high, as high as I’d ever seen them. I looked out for her, and there she was—walking away from me. She walked away from the house, robe billowing, her black hair streaming. As she reached the edge of the cliff, that fearful cliff of my nightmares, where the walk passed through the hedgerow, she turned. Even from the distance safe away from my window’s edge, I could see her expression, the slight parting of her lips.

  I reached my arm toward the window. I tried to edge closer but couldn’t. The fall was too great, the edge, the empty space. My stomach dropped and then my arm. I called out to her, but it was too far. She could not hear me over the thunderous sea. She turned away and disappeared over the rocky ledge and I drew back deep inside my room. I didn’t run to her; I didn’t stop her; I sent her away with a curse. It was my fault.

  Now, nearly a year later, I lay on a different bed in a far different room with the turmoil of guilt raging through me, struggling with my spinning thoughts. Mama had been in Yellowstone. She’d been obsessed with Yellowstone, in fact, abandoning her tranquil landscapes as her pain grew, choosing to paint the most tormented views of Yellowstone hour upon hour. The letters said that she’d left someone behind, tried to find them. Could it have been a lover? Sadness shot through me as I thought how Papa might feel if that were true. Did she not love him? Did he not love her?

  I stared at the ceiling and my thoughts spun faster. Tom. I’d disappointed him. I felt my cheeks flush with shame. I wanted to see him again and explain myself. I wanted to touch him, to brush back that silly lock of hair that fell across his forehead, I wanted him to touch me. I clutched the coverlet in both fists, holding tight.

  I could not escape the question of what would become of me.

  In one direction my future was wide open. A great gaping hole waited there with nothing to hold me up. I imagined I was standing at my window at home, right at the sill, or on the cliff facing the sea. What would it be like to leap, to let go and fall?

  In the other direction, everything was predictable and I wouldn’t need to worry, to be in control. My mind drifted to George Graybull, whose attentions were unpleasantly focused on me. Papa envisioned our salvation through Graybull. Me marrying Graybull. That was a sickening thought. I could see it rationally: my prospects would be settled, in a manner appropriate to our station. To our former station. And wasn’t that what I had wanted, even demanded? To return to Newport, to pick up my former life, to be accepted in society and take my place beside Kitty and the others? But Graybull . . . oh, heavens. His face appeared in my mind’s eye, his leering smile and that dreadful gesture with his tongue. The way he looked at me as if I were his prey . . .

  I shifted onto my side and tried to focus on something else, anything else.

  A photograph hung on the wall above the bed, a picture of a spray of water arcing into the air. OLD FAITHFUL GEYSER was inscribed across the bottom. I pulled myself up onto my elbows and stared at it, shoving Graybull firmly out of my mind.

  I imagined seeing the image of the geyser through the lens of a camera. I focused my eyes on the photograph, almost able to see every droplet of water, looking at line and shape and not at water as substance. Art as movement; art as expression. Art the way Mama had taught me to see it. The art of making pictures.

  Making art and real, solid, concrete magic. Mrs. Gale did that, here in Yellowstone. Every day she made her own magic in her art and in her life. She was not subject to the rules of men. She was not beholden to Newport society. In my experience only girls like Kula worked, not girls like Kitty—or me. But Mrs. Gale dressed well and lived well, working at something she was passionate about. I had not ever considered this as an option for me. It had never been one before. Could it be now? I stared at the photograph thinking about how, if I held a camera, I might frame that same shot and feel that same passion.

  And as I lay on the bed and wrapped my thoughts in and out and around the twining vines of my future and Papa’s secrets and Mama’s secrets and Uncle John’s letters, the answer came to me. I sat up and tossed my hair back over my shoulders. It was so obvious, so easy. I had to speak to Uncle John.

  My uncle would have the answers I sought; he could help me fit the pieces of the puzzle into place. He’d returned to his work at the Lake Hotel on the other side of the Park. I could try to send him a telegram; but it would be tricky to manage Papa, and I couldn’t expect a clear answer. Or any answer, if my experience with my grandfather was any indication. I could telephone if I could find one—they were rare enough in Newport, never mind Yellowstone. Trickier still. I needed to see Uncle John face-to-face. I had to convince Papa to send me to the Lake Hotel.

  I stood up and paced, gathering my hair into a single braid as I wrestled with this idea.

  The Tour.

  Of course. Tom had mentioned it, and then Papa had said something about sending me to see the rest of the Park. Tom had said that I should go, and now I had a reason to. Papa would never suspect my reason.

  I stayed in my room for the rest of the day, weaving my plan together and firming my resolve, avoiding memories of the doe and her orphaned fawn and of my mama’s eyes the last time I saw her.

  Chapter TWENTY - ONE

  July 6, 1904

  Hurry you hounds of hell to the mountains where The daughters of Cadmus hold their wild séance.

  —The Bacchae, Euripides, c. 408 BCE

  THE FOLLOWING M
ORNING THE SAME SURLY CLERK I’D encountered at the telegram office delivered a telegram and a letter addressed only to me. I was glad Papa wasn’t at home to question their contents. First was this telegram:

  YOU HAVE BEEN TAKEN WRONGLY STOP WILL SUE TO BECOME LEGAL GUARDIAN BRING YOU HOME STOP YOUR INHERITANCE AT STAKE STOP WAIT FOR FURTHER NEWS STOP GRANDFATHER

  And then this letter from Kitty:

  Maggie! This is dreadful! But I have stunning news—Edward was shocked when I confided your condition to him and he has offered to come to your aid. A knight riding to your rescue—isn’t he sweet? He’s so adorable I could just steal him from you. I shall send you some new gloves, as your old ones must be getting terribly frayed.

  And there are some lovely new hats in fashion—quite large but I shall try and ship. I have a perfectly darling little tricorn with a veil.

  I stared at the papers in my hand. Grandpapa was suing to become my guardian. And Edward was ready to ride to my rescue. It was everything I wanted, everything I’d hoped for—a return to Newport, to my friends, to wealth and position, to a young man who cared enough to rescue me. I’d have money and a home, and would not have to endure Graybull for it. I could have my Ghost back, maybe even Mina. I sank onto the stairs and stared through the glass panes of the front window, absorbing this news.

  I should be rejoicing and yet I was not. According to Grandpapa, Papa had all but kidnapped me. Should Grandpapa win, my father would become a pariah. His lies would cost him whatever he had left in this world, including me. I felt ill at this thought. Though he had lied to me, and I wanted him to know the hurt he had caused me, he was my father; I didn’t want him to suffer that horror.

  And there was my newly devised quest to uncover the truth. The timing of the letter, the telegram, so soon after I had resolved to find Uncle John and perhaps even find Mama, the timing was all wrong. I couldn’t abandon my search, not now. Not yet. Not when I could be so close to learning the truth. Even returning to Newport and to Edward’s arms was not tempting enough to lure me away from possibly returning to Newport with Mama and Papa together, as a family.

  Edward. The perfect husband, perfect for a life of balls and society. But Edward didn’t send fireworks through me with a touch of his hand. I tried to remember what Edward looked like, and . . . nothing came to mind. Oh, I remembered our moment behind the stairs; a blush crept down my throat at that. But . . . Tom.

  I couldn’t get Tom out of my thoughts. He both infuriated and thrilled me. I couldn’t leave Yellowstone without apologizing to Tom. I wouldn’t leave without seeing him again. I sat on the stairs and stared into the bright morning light, and had an idea. I went to find Mrs. Gale.

  She was working in the Haynes Studios, examining prints. I burst in without even a hello. “Do you know where I might find Tom Rowland?”

  She looked up at me with a bemused smile. “Even here in the wilderness, we try to maintain a sense of decorum. I trust you are well?”

  I took a deep breath, ashamed. “Of course. I’m sorry, Mrs. Gale. I have to speak to him. It’s important.” I tried to stand still.

  “Yes, I know just where the Rowlands are. I also happen to know that they are soon off to work in another part of the Park and are busy with preparations.” She paused as she took in my nervous anticipation. “Young Tom is out at the Wylie camp.”

  My shoulders slumped as I realized that the distance to the tent camp was a buggy ride and not a walk.

  Mrs. Gale pursed her lips. “I happen to be going in that direction, if you’d like to come along. In, say, an hour?”

  I couldn’t help myself; I hugged her with a spontaneity that made her laugh. I would see Tom again, thanks to her, and delight made me want to dance.

  When we drove into the tent camp, the sun was slipping through the trees like slender fingers. The camp was cheerful and welcoming, and was spotlessly clean. Mrs. Gale stopped her buggy near a large, fixed tent on a wood platform. She pointed down the path. “That’s the one, about halfway down.”

  My heart pounded hard as I hurried along, trying to come up with the right words.

  Tom was there in front of a tent, loading a wagon with dry goods. He hoisted barrels and boxes into the wagon and swung his long body up to sort and stack and lash them down. I watched him move. I missed him already, even if it had only been two days. I missed him, and I longed to jump right up next to him and tell him so, straight out.

  He caught sight of me and straightened. “Hello.” His voice was cool.

  “Hello.” My thoughts were a jumble and my tongue a lead weight. I looked at my feet and took a deep breath and plunged. “I just wanted to tell you that I’m sorry.” He was silent. I glanced at him, worried that he hated me. “Mrs. Gale said you’re off somewhere?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m hoping to take the Tour. As soon as Papa will let me go.” I was sure now that he hated me, and I wanted to melt away in misery.

  “You won’t be disappointed.”

  He was so quiet, so remote. And still, I rushed in, foolishly. “Tom, I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I offended you. I’m sorry for what I said about Kula. I . . . Can we still be friends? Please?”

  A smile crept over his face. He leapt off the wagon and walked over to me. My misery vanished at the sight of his grin. “Margaret Bennet of Newport, Rhode Island, I can’t help liking you. I accept your apology.”

  The smile on my face now must have shone like the sun. “So, maybe we’ll meet on the road.”

  “We very well might.” He stood so close now. My throat tightened; he was so close I thought he might kiss me.

  But instead he stretched out his hand. “Friends.”

  “Friends.” When he took my hand he held it and he didn’t let go, and my heart lifted and my eyes lifted to meet his.

  And then, as if from thin air, Kula appeared behind Tom. She came walking around from the other side of the wagon, her arms burdened with a sack.

  “Ah!” The sound escaped my lips. I had to admit, she had a sense of timing that was most annoying.

  Tom dropped my hand. I bit my lip hard, afraid I’d say something to Kula that I’d regret later. Tom looked from me to Kula. “Kula. This is Maggie. She’s living here with her pa.”

  “I know who she is.” Kula put the sack into Tom’s wagon, not taking her eyes off of me. “These are done.”

  “Thanks. Nice to have clean things,” Tom said. I watched the flush creep up his neck. He was not looking at me, but at least he wasn’t looking at Kula, either. He seemed to be studying something by his right foot.

  I fumbled for the right words. “I’m sure you do excellent work.” There. That was neutral enough not to insult her, not to put something new and bad between me and Tom.

  Kula narrowed her eyes—what was it about her that troubled me so?—and turned away. “I’ll see you later, Tom.”

  “Good-bye,” he said. Kula moved off and Tom and I remained silent. “I don’t know her well.” Tom looked at Kula’s retreating back. “Anyhow. I need to finish loading this wagon. So, see you around?” He pulled away, looking at me only briefly, those gray eyes connecting and then retreating.

  “Yes.” Oh, I hope so. I only had so much time left here, and I wanted to see him as much as I could. I lifted my fingers as he pulled away, going back to his work. “See you.” I sighed. He was busy. Maybe he was embarrassed. I couldn’t tell. But I knew my own feelings: I would have stayed and watched him all afternoon if I thought he wanted me to.

  I found Mrs. Gale. On the way back to Mammoth we were both quiet, lost in thought, but when we arrived I gave her a quick hug. She said, “My dear, I was young once. Happily married, too.”

  I smiled. “I’m going to ask Papa if I can take the Tour.”

  “Ah! Do! I’ll be heading out myself in a couple of days. I need some photographs in the geyser basins. Perhaps we could travel together.”

  I held her hand warmly and thanked her again. Then I made my way back to the co
ttage, thinking, making plans.

  Seeing Tom had clarified things for me. Though I wanted a return to normalcy, I couldn’t leave Yellowstone yet. I couldn’t let my grandfather deter me from my quest to find Uncle John. I couldn’t let Edward come for me, come rescue me, when all I could think about was Tom. It was odd; only a few days ago, I’d wanted to be rescued and to be free of this place more than anything, and now . . . Now I needed time here to resolve these matters. Time in Yellowstone.

  I sent my grandfather a telegram telling him that I might have important news about Mama and that I required time to investigate. I sent Kitty a letter in which I gushed about gloves and hats, and, yes, wasn’t Edward a gem?

  At dinner I pressed Papa about the Tour. He’d said I could go once we were settled and he had an income now, didn’t he? I told him that Mrs. Gale, the Haynes photographer, would be taking the Tour and that she could chaperone me. He stared at his plate of burned potatoes and overcooked steak, at my feeble attempts at cooking. When our eyes met, I could see his guilt and his sadness, and for the first time in a while, I was sad for him. But I used that guilt to my advantage, and he agreed to let me go.

  Chapter TWENTY - TWO

  July 8, 1904

  The roads were good, they are government roads. It was uphill all the way and we went very slowly, trotting gently most of the time until we reached a spring where passengers always alight to get a drink . . .

  —testimony of Mrs. Jenny V. Cowdry to Yellowstone Park Transportation Company, 1908

  ON THE MORNING OF THE EIGHTH, I STOOD IN FRONT OF the National Hotel, ready to board my bright yellow Yellowstone Wagon with the rest of the “dudes.”

  “Dudes.” That’s what the coachman called the passengers. All of us were offered linen dusters, but I had my own, which I’d pulled, still pressed, from my wardrobe.